


I'm Always Here

by 2babyturtles



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Afraid to be alone, Angst, Clean Romance, Gunshot Wounds, Have a wash, Healing, Innocent, Kidnapping, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Smut, Recovery, Tragedy, romantic, shower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-12-17 04:23:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11843865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: Recovering from a particularly devastating case, Sherlock and John turn to each other for healing.





	1. Would You Like to Have a Wash?

It wasn’t weird, but it should’ve been. Another day, another killer, and another successful investigation for Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. With the door closed and the lights low, nursing a gunshot wound and a fair bit of trauma, Sherlock and John didn’t feel particularly successful. The only thing either of them could focus on was how close they’d been to losing the other.

 

The emotions that drew Sherlock’s arms to John, wanting so desperately to wrap around him and feel his heart beating, his lungs driving air and oxygen through his body, the very real sensation that was a living John Watson, were foreign to him. It was as if all his blood burned in the muscles he’d need to lift his arms and embrace his dear friend. He tried not to stare, but closing his eyes only brought flashbacks of the maniac that had done all of this. Over and over again, he replayed the moment he’d been shot, not because he’d been shot but because he’d been so afraid he’d failed.

 

The hoarse screaming that filed his ears was his own name in the desperate voice of his colleague, and the last thing he’d seen was the back-handed pistol whip when the would-be killer aimed to put John out of commission, too. Truly, Lestrade’s timing couldn’t have been better. Well, perhaps a bit better; had he arrived a moment before, Sherlock wouldn’t be working so hard to breathe around a bullet hole and John wouldn’t be fighting the worst migraine of his life. Still, his timing very likely saved their lives, as well as providing the necessary evidence to incriminate the man and warrant his arrest on the spot. Of course, his preceding kidnap and presumable torture of John Watson had been enough for that. It was a small comfort knowing that the man had wanted to confess anyway, and his subsequent time in interrogation had provided Scotland Yard with enough material to ensure a life sentence.

 

Although the light flickering from the fireplace cast a warm glow on their faces, Sherlock and John felt utterly cold, and the distance between them felt insurmountable. There weren’t good enough words to express a love as deep as that that existed between them, even if either of them had recognized it for what it was. Of course, there was little question that that love did exist, considering the constant companionship John provided while Sherlock was in the hospital. A week of in-patient care hardly seemed enough for a shot like this, but John could hardly pretend he wouldn’t be glad to sleep in a real bed again.

 

Now that they were home, that bed seemed much less important. They were _both_ home. Neither of them was quite ready to remove themselves to separate bedrooms and face their own nightmares alone. The only thing that had kept Sherlock from hurting himself when he woke up in a panic in the hospital was the comforting closeness of his friend. He would reach a hand out to the sleeping army doctor, usually to check for a pulse, and then return to sleep, often with his hand still on John’s wrist, or draped across his shoulder if he’d checked his neck.

 

“Feels cold, doesn’t it?” John asked, finally breaking the silence. His body language, including the characteristic twitching hand, was enough to convince Sherlock that he was experiencing physical terror, still, but his eyes were steady.

 

“It does,” Sherlock agreed cautiously. He wondered whether his own desires to shower and wrap up in a warm blanket were shared by his friend, and whether he might be convinced to engage in these activities together.

 

John seemed to be making similar calculations, eyeing the detective with careful eyes. “What do you think of… well… you can’t exactly handle yourself properly.”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, wondering what precisely his friend was getting at. “Yes, John, I am currently unable to stand or move comfortably without the support of a cane.” His grimace and brief glance at the device that allowed him to walk about with any sense of normalcy was not lost on the doctor, who nodded knowingly. He’d hated his own cane and he’d hardly even needed it.

 

“But you’ve been in the hospital,” John responded slowly, a slight blush creeping across his skin. “You’d probably like to have a wash.”

 

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock examined John’s expression studiously. The man’s eyebrows were raised— _uncomfortable, awkward—_ but his mouth was set firmly— _sincere._ His eyes featured heavy bags— _tired, more likely to think irrationally or emotionally_ —and the puffiness in his cheeks told him he’d been crying— _very emotional, then._ He pressed his lips tightly together, wishing he could make similar deductions on himself.

 

Constricted throat— _nervous_ —and warm cheeks— _blushing_ —were plain enough feel, but he wondered what his eyes looked like and whether his mouth was set still in the anger he’d carried since John had first been kidnapped.

 

“I don’t want to be alone,” Sherlock finally responded, turning his gaze towards his hands which were crossed in his lap. “I don’t think I could wash alone. I hate to ask, and I wouldn’t if you weren’t a medically trained man, but I was wondering if you might…be willing to….” His voice broke and caught, tears welling in his eyes just as they did in John’s.

 

“This has been an awful time,” John responded, his own voice choked. “I don’t want to be alone either, and I can’t think of letting you out of my sight. Would you want help washing, Sherlock? I could have a shower, too, the warm water might help a bit.” There was nothing about his voice that was confident or sure. Rather, it was the raw desperation that elicited a reaction.

 

Not trusting his voice, Sherlock nodded and leaned forward, waiting for John’s help to rise from his chair. “Can we sleep together?” he asked quietly as John moved towards him. “Not like that. I mean that…I don’t think I can face sleeping alone.”

 

“God, yes,” John whispered. “I can’t either. I just need to know you’re okay.” He looped one arm around Sherlock’s waist, careful not to pull him to close for fear of putting pressure on the wound in his abdomen, and wrapped one of Sherlock’s over his shoulders. The height difference made the maneuver difficult but it wasn’t the first time he’d assisted a gunshot victim who outsized him, and considering the friends’ career path, he doubted it would be the last.

 

“I don’t want to be alone,” Sherlock repeated, crying openly.

 

“You won’t be. I’m here. I’m always here.”


	2. The Scent of His Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trip to the washroom complete, Sherlock and John must now sort out the logistics of how their shower will go. It is so much easier to focus on other things, though.

Sherlock leaned against the counter, watching as John stooped into the shower, turned the water on, and returned to him. “That should get warm pretty fast,” he murmured, reaching past Sherlock to dry his hand on a towel. “You think you can stand alright in there?”

Pushing himself to a full standing position, Sherlock groaned, his face turned white, and his lips pressed together in a grimace that wrecked John’s chest. He breathed through his teeth and instinctively reached a hand out towards John, who was already holding both arms out should he fall. Clutching at John’s wrist, Sherlock leaned back against the sink, releasing the pent up breath he held in pain.

“No,” he finally said, “I do not.”

John pulled his gaze momentarily from Sherlock’s face to the tub. “Bath then?”

Sherlock scoffed weakly and cocked an eyebrow. “You know as well as I do that I can’t let the bandaging get wet. I don’t think soaking in my own dirty water would do the wound any good.”

“Right,” John nodded, unsure of what to do and wishing terribly that these things weren’t so awkward. “Well, I could help you,” he said quietly, examining the bar in the shower which would have been fine for his own height but was much too low for Sherlock to get any use out of it. “But I’m not sure how I’d stay dry. Or keep the floor from getting all wet.” He looked back to his friend in time to see a weak expression drizzling confusion at him.

“John,” Sherlock began, looking down and clearly uncomfortable. “I think it’s best we don’t pretend there’s another way. Either I need some assistance in the shower with me, or we will need to contact a nurse or something for the night. We’ve been friends for long enough that I doubt it’s the strangest thing we’ve done, and I assure you I will think no differently. Can’t we just make this simple?”

This time, John searched Sherlock’s face, paying special attention to the clear blue eyes he knew so well. There was sincerity and vulnerability there that John wasn’t used to seeing, but more than anything there was pain. It was the last of these that convinced John to push past his awkwardness and help his friend.

“Right,” he muttered, pulling his jacket off. The bathroom door was still open and he hesitated a moment, looking around blankly, before tossing the garment in the hall. There was a stiffness in his movements as he moved about, evidence both of his characteristic uncertainty and his recent trauma. “Is it alright if I help you..?” He gestured at Sherlock’s own clothes, a relatively simply outfit compared to what he usually wore—gunshot wounds don’t make dressing in a suit easy.

“Of course, John,” Sherlock responded, wincing as he let John pull off his sleeves. “Think of me as your patient if you find that more comfortable.” He probably would have laughed if it didn’t hurt so much to do so.

John breathed out sharply and kept his eyes focused on his task. “You’re much more than a patient, Sherlock,” he muttered, clearly unhappy with the comparison.

Weighing his options, Sherlock chose simply to nod as he began work on his trousers. While he had the motor skills necessary to pull at the button, he couldn’t manage to tense the necessary muscles to actually open it. He grunted sharply, gritting his teeth against a wave of nausea that swept through him as pain flared to a burning point. The relief was instant when John swatted his hands away and unbuttoned the pants with a swift motion. Sherlock blushed and mumbled a quiet thank you, wishing he wasn’t so pathetic.

Neither of them could help being grateful for the closeness of the situation. Both had thought they’d lose the other and both had been hysterical to discover they were wrong. Still, it would have been nice to achieve such intimacy without the need for trauma and agony.

John first tried crouching to hold Sherlock’s trousers down for him to step out of them. Unfortunately, Sherlock could hardly perform such an action alone. Thinking for a moment, John settled for placing one foot inside the trousers and holding Sherlock up as he stepped bare-legged onto the bathroom floor. His shirt was already off and John stiffened when he felt the scars tracing Sherlock’s back. He’d known that his years abroad taking down Moriarty had been brutal, but such a physical reminder was difficult to face.

Beyond that, Sherlock was terribly cold. His skin was soft and firm, with smooth muscles rippling beneath the surface, but he felt as though he’d been sitting outside for the past hour. Worry plagued John and he couldn’t help letting the doctor in him take over for a moment.

“Can I just- I’m gonna- yeah.” He paused for a moment to check Sherlock’s pulse and compare the temperature of the skin around his injury to the skin elsewhere. It didn’t seem like the wound was inflamed and he breathed a sigh of relief, glad there were no signs of infection. The bandaging was cloth and John held up a finger for Sherlock to wait while he went to the kitchen to retrieve cling wrap and tape, covering the gauze as best he could when he returned.

When he was finished, Sherlock leaned back against the counter, breathing heavily, his head drooping. John watched him for a moment before stripping down to his own boxers. The sides of his hands and arms were bruised from where he’d tried to break his way out of captivity, and Sherlock noticed the discoloration immediately, despite his condition.

Reaching forward carefully with one thin hand, he grasped John’s wrist, turning it gently so he could examine the markings. The side of his hand down to his elbow was purple and Sherlock could see that the swelling had gone down. He counted backwards in his head and realized these bruises must have been much worse originally since his stay in the hospital had been nearly a week long.

“When I stood before,” he whispered, “I grabbed your wrists. I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” John said, placing his hand on Sherlock’s arm and out of sight of his scrutiny.

“What did it?”

John gasped softly, surprised as much by the question as by the rush of memories that flooded him. His chest started to tremble and he closed his eyes. “I did,” he finally whispered, noting the silent apology in Sherlock’s tense posture.

“I shouldn’t have asked, that was insensitive.”

“No,” John whispered. “No, I should talk about it. I was- he put me- well it was a coffin. He buried me.”

Sherlock tensed along every muscle, clenching his fists and breathing through his teeth. He reached up to John’s hand, pulling it forward to examine it. John’s eyes opened, surprised, when he felt the softness of Sherlock’s face against his palm and wrist.

Sherlock breathed coldly against John’s hand, breathing in the scent of his friend and the warmth he offered. “I’m sorry,” he commented softly. John doubted suddenly whether he was apologizing for what had happened, and he cocked his head at his friend. “I should’ve said something before. Should’ve told you,” Sherlock continued. “I’m just so glad you’re not hurt worse.”

John laughed humorlessly, although his eyes seemed to smile, and he tipped his head forward to catch Sherlock’s eyes. “I’m glad you’re not dead,” he mused. “I thought you- well, I’m just glad you’re not.”

Sherlock smiled, releasing John’s hand and taking a small breath. The steam from the shower had filled the room, despite the open door, and Sherlock turned his face towards the source, closing his eyes. “Let’s have a wash, John.”


	3. The Truest Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shower takes a heavy toll on John and Sherlock but provides the safe closeness they both so desperately need.

Despite the pain, Sherlock found comfort in the shower. There was something oddly cathartic about washing off the sweat and grime that built up during the case and his time in the hospital. John helped him scrub off the sticky residue of the EMS pads that had been the only thing reporting his beating heart to the man who’d stayed by his side. Neither of them quite meant to wash the other. John intended to help Sherlock stand and Sherlock intended to use John as little as possible.

But standing in the shower, seeing the dirt caking John’s bare torso, Sherlock couldn’t stop himself. He needed John to be clean and safe and warm. He needed him to be John. It was a need that drove him to lift a soapy washcloth to John’s chest and shoulders, cleaning very gently. John closed his eyes, first against the pain of memories that returned to him—of _how_ he got so dirty and _why_ he stayed in the hospital with Sherlock instead of coming home to wash—and then against love and gratitude that threatened to bubble out of him.

Sherlock couldn’t wash himself well either and John helped with that. He certainly couldn’t lift his arms up to wash his own hair and they laughed together heartily when John reached up to help and a cascade of shampoo and water poured down onto the shorter man. They were innocent enough, enjoying the closeness and intimacy of the shower without needing to push anything. They both remained in their boxers and managed to clean the most private parts of their bodies without the other’s help.

The shower was small and standing wore Sherlock out. The water was nice, though, and neither man was eager to get out. To support his friend, John leaned heartily into him, offering the support and closeness he needed, physically and emotionally.

“John,” Sherlock murmured, gazing down at him with tired eyes. It was an entire sentence. It was everything he didn’t know how to say and a thousand thank-yous for everything he didn’t know he needed. It was an apology and a please and so much more. Of course, John was Sherlock’s world. It only made sense that he could say so much with just the man’s name.

John’s choked response surprised Sherlock and his voice shook as he forced out the words he’d clearly been holding onto. “There have been so many times that I thought we were going to die. Or you were going to die. Our very first case, I killed a man to stop him killing you.”

“John, I-“

He held a finger up, silencing him before putting his arm back around his waist. He pressed his strong fingers against Sherlock’s back and sides, sending shivers up his spine and drawing him into what might’ve become a hug if not for their near nudity. Sherlock’s soft wet hair tickled John’s face when he pressed his own forehead against John’s.

“You have been my truest friend since the very beginning and I can’t think of what I’d do if I lost you.” The finality in his tone was sharp. His chest heaved. He breathed hard in rivulets of steam that washed against Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock had tried, since he’d returned, not to think of what his two year absence had done to this man. He could hardly stand to think of the agony and the depression and the loneliness. His own pain had been crippling at times; missing John as much as he did had been devastatingly real. But to think that this man thought his best friend was dead? To see the haunted eyes of a man who thought it would happen again, and without the chance of reversal? It was almost too much.

“I don’t think I can keep taking these cases, Sherlock.”

The world seemed to dissolve. As if in slow motion, he relived being shot, being threatened, four bomb attacks, and much more. As if every nightmare was faced alone. As if the poolside fight with Moriarty ended in an explosion and a dead man, and the rooftop jump left John broken on the side walk. As if every possible thing that could go wrong did. And Sherlock was alone.

He crumpled weakly, leaning back away from John. Suddenly, the weight he put on his friend seemed to be too much. “I can’t do anything else,” he murmured, his eyes turned decidedly away from John. “But I cannot ask you to keep going this.” Slowly, deep fear painted on the back of guarded eyes, he looked back at him. “Nor could I imagine a world in which you were not the center. That is not a world I wish to consider myself a member of. I could not bear to lose you, either.”

He made as if to pull away. As if he could suddenly gather the strength climb out of the shower on his own, or as if he suddenly desired anything but to face this situation. John reached forwards and grabbed Sherlock’s arm, gently pulling him back. “I’m not leaving,” he whispered, his face set firmly.

Sure that his own eyes were full of tears and his eyebrows were knitted in sadness, Sherlock wondered at his friend’s resolve. The army doctor presented a strong front, and he wondered whether his core was as strong. John sniffed, twitching his face the way he did when he was uncomfortable, as though he was suddenly aware of the expression he wore.

“I can’t take cases like this, but leaving wouldn’t exactly help would it? I’d still worry about you, and I’d still be without you.” His voice was stronger now and Sherlock could see that he’d reached a decision, his melted eyes solidifying into two blue-green gems. “Promise me,” he said, his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “Promise me we will lay low. Take the boring cases, get the backup. I can’t lose you.”

Sherlock searched for a long time. He examined the way John’s mouth set into a desperate frown, worn from the years of worry and tragedy he’d carried. He considered John’s eyes and brows, set firmly but bearing clear signs of a question—begging him. He observed John’s posture, the way he stood back, as if he were ready to run, but leaned forward, as if that’s where he’d really rather be.

The pain in his abdomen had grown and he was certain he’d not be able to stand much longer. He was afraid that this closeness would end when the shower did, though, and didn’t want to admit his difficulty. “I think,” he mumbled, sleep and pain slurring his words. John leaned forward, hitching his shoulder against Sherlock’s chest, minding his wound, to support him. “That a boring life with you, Dr. Watson, would be the best sort of life I could have.”


	4. Are You Going To Love Me Tomorrow?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With blankets and pillows in place, Sherlock and John are finally ready for bed. Sherlock, however, is not done talking.

Sheets and blankets and heavy things weighed them down. Sherlock, being particularly practical, had seven pillows on his bed. John had three. Combined, they found themselves in the sort of tangled cocoon one would expect in a silly romance novel. Except that these two men were the only ones who didn’t know they loved each other.

 

Surely some part of them did. And in fact, it’s likely that their hearts knew best of all. Lying in bed, their foreheads just touching, their hands clasped together between them, it seemed entirely likely that their brains were starting to realize, too.

 

John brought his own heavy blankets, dragging them down the hall after depositing Sherlock in the bed. Sherlock tried futilely to reach down for the zip bag of spare blankets but couldn’t quite get there and, afraid he might fall if he reached further, settled in to wait. The soft padding of John’s feet as he stepped up the hall made Sherlock suddenly giddy.

 

“John,” he asked quietly. “Is this a bit like a sleep over?”

 

John laughed once, a genuine smile on his face. He focused his eyes on his task of pulling the blanket across the bed as he formulated a proper answer. “I think,” he began, “that it is much like sleepovers for little kids. Teenagers and young men don’t usually share a bed together.”

 

“Do grown men?”

 

“I don’t think grown men have sleepovers typically.”

 

Sherlock was quiet, watching as John set up the pillows and remaining blankets. “This is special,” he concluded gesturing to the place John was preparing. His eyes were so heavy and his limbs seemed to bear far too much weight for him to lift. John smiled, remembering Sherlock had taken his pain medicine just shortly before the shower.

 

“Yes,” he whispered. “This is special.” It took a moment to help Sherlock lay back down and he maneuvered carefully so that Sherlock could lay comfortably on his back but still move his head about. Walking around to the other side, John climbed in bed beside him, careful to leave a respectful distance should the man want it.

 

Sherlock did not. He did his best to scooch toward his friend, but settled for reaching out an arm when that hurt too much. On his side, John had a much better view of Sherlock than Sherlock did of John and he couldn’t help admiring the way his damp curls fell tousled across his forehead, spilling across the pillow like so many ribbons. Although the grimace on Sherlock’s face sent bolts of pain into his chest, John found himself mesmerized by the tenacity of a man who had faced death so many times before. He leaned backwards to turn off the light before turning to face Sherlock again.

 

“Is it just because I’m hurt?” Sherlock finally asked, as John moved closer towards him. “And because you’re scared?”

 

John was quiet for a moment and the only movement was the darting of Sherlock’s eyes in the moonlight as he searched for anything to observe on his friend’s face. “I don’t feel so scared,” John finally responded. “I mean, I do But I thought I’d be claustrophobic. I thought I’d be worse. I’m just happy to be with you.” His voice dwindled off, leaving only a breath in the air.

 

Sherlock’s voice slurred, the deep bass rumbling its way through the night to caress John’s face with the soft scent of his breath. “Are you going to love me tomorrow?”

 

John stiffened, surprised. “What do you mean?”

 

“I know that I’m probably high from the painkillers—they really are very good—and I’m probably also a little high from everything that’s been going on. But I love you right now. I think I’ll love you tomorrow, too.” The confession tumbled from his lips before he probably realized what he’d said and John stared with wide eyes, although he could see very little. He couldn’t help feeling like he was taking advantage of Sherlock by allowing him to go on, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself, either. “I think I’ve always loved you,” Sherlock continued, bobbling about through the sentence. “I think that you maybe love me, too, but I’m not really sure.”

 

The silence stretched on for a moment and Sherlock’s head tumbled against John’s, their foreheads connecting and their breath mixing in the air. John peered up at the dark spot that was Sherlock, silhouetted against the light from the window. He wondered if his friend was truly so thoughtful inside. This hardened shell that presented itself to the world was so much more on the inside, and he had the devastating and truly wondrous feeling he might be the only one to see inside.

 

“Sherlock?” John whispered when a faint snoring echoed in front of him. His heart seemed to sink equally with relief and quiet sadness. Very gently, mindful of Sherlock’s wound, John reached out an arm and put it across Sherlock’s chest. The closeness aggravating in that way that a movie is when the character makes a bad choice. When one simply knows what is to be done but cannot seem to be convincing enough to make it happen. “Yes,” he sighed. “I love you, too.”

 

The rising sun shone upon sleeping men, despite their tendencies to wake early. In the night, they’d moved even closer together, although Sherlock was still largely immobile. There was a certain amount of comfort in the way they slept, each as if they slept alone, with a hand or leg reached out towards the other.

 

Sherlock woke first, as he typically did, and blinked groggily. The pain medicine had largely worn off and he felt as if a gaping hole was ripped through his chest. Of course, that feeling was exceptionally accurate. He turned to see if John was awake, hoping the man might help him, but got himself caught instead.

 

The morning sun was golden, still, and danced smoothly across John’s face. His lips were slightly parted, a face of rest and relaxation he rarely wore in waking hours. The bags beneath his eyes, so prominent in recent days, were drastically reduced and John seemed to have regained years over night.

 

“I heard you,” Sherlock whispered, so softly that even if John woke up he couldn’t hear. He reached his own hand out to John’s arm, a touch that soothed and enlivened him. “And I still love you.”


	5. Announcement: Sequel!

For those who are interested, I've started a sequel! Find it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12356013/chapters/28105938

 

Thank you all for your support!

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the following prompt from http://bbcsherlock.livejournal.com/635785.html
> 
> Sherlock and John sharing a shower in a platonic way
> 
> Because one of them is in shock or injured, the other helps in the shower. Climbing in all dressed, just in their underwear or naked, it’s not important. And then, going to bed. Any ending: one standing guard by the bed all night, both just sleeping in the bed or any level of physical comfort. Gen, first time or established relationship: feel free.
> 
> Bonus points if you choose the “in shock” scenario (+first time cuddling in bed) because I like emotional scenes.


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